


Buckle

by biocomp



Series: Deviant Souls [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Choking, Edging, Enthusiastic Consent, FTM, Face Sitting, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, PIAU, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Trans Porn for Trans People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 08:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15882057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biocomp/pseuds/biocomp
Summary: They break apart slowly, both breathing heavy.  Connor’s flushed, he can tell by the heat in his face, and color is climbing up Hank’s neck.  Hank’s knuckles brush the skin of his cheek and Connor smiles softly, watching Hank’s face and leaning into his touch.“The movie,” Connor murmurs.“Seen it before,” Hank says, leaning closer.“My tea.”“I got a microwave.”———Part of Paranormal Investigator AU, where Hank and Connor hunt ghosts together and everyone is human.





	Buckle

**Author's Note:**

> It’s 4 AM and I haven’t beta’d this, so please forgive my mistakes. I’ll edit it tomorrow when I’m awake!!
> 
> !!!!! Connor is trans in this and has a vagina, but I use words like cock and dick to describe his clitoris. Please read at your discretion! !!!!

It’s 9:05 pm, cloudy. Rain hits the roof of Hank’s house lazily, the sound of it soft as it lands against the asphalt tiles. The music from an old western fills the living room, the TV bright in the low light. Connor leans his head against Hank’s shoulder, Hank’s arm around him, Hank’s thumb rubbing little circles against his sleeve. His touch is warm through the fabric and Connor melts into him a little further, sighing deeply. Hank’s cheek is heavy against the top of his head, his breath disturbing the little hairs that stick up near Connor’s forehead. It’s exceedingly peaceful. After a week of deadlines and suffering, Connor is grateful for the quiet.

The sound of the kettle rips through the house, a low howl growing into a shriek in a matter of moments. Sumo huffs on the rug near Hank’s feet, offended by the disturbance. Connor untangles himself and trots from the couch, socked feet slipping on the tile of the kitchen floor. He catches himself on the doorframe and hears Hank chuckle at him. He resists the urge to give Hank the finger and manages to reach the rug in front of the stove unscathed, flicking off the burner and removing the kettle, hissing as the hot metal of the handle bites into his hand. He shakes his wrist and blows on his fingers, his free hand opening the cupboard to pull down a mug. This one is gray, a faded DPD logo on one side and a badge declaring “5 years of service” on the other. The ceramic is cool on Connors’ fingers and he turns the handle to face left before he sets it on the counter.

The only tea in Hank’s house is tea that he brought over, back when they first started spending time together. He pulls the box down from the shelf and takes out a packet before returning the container and softly closing the door to the cupboard. It’s not as good as the loose leaf stuff, but he’ll make do. He plunks the sachet into the mug and pulls his sleeve over his hand, lifting the kettle carefully. He doesn’t like Hank’s kettle. It always overheats. It’s old, a cheery apple green, sporting a large dent near the base where Hank dropped it years ago. It was Hank’s wife’s, back when they were still together. Connor discovered it in the back of a cupboard when he’d been looking for Hank’s measuring cups. Hank had been dismissive when Connor pulled it out, looking at Hank over his shoulder.

“It was Eileen’s,” he said. That was it.

Connor pulls up on the handle and pours hot water into the mug, looking at the bumps of his knuckles under his sweater. He hears gunshots from the living room, the sound effect tinny from age. He doesn’t understand Hank’s attraction to these movies but he does enjoy watching them if only because the nostalgia of it all soothes Hank, makes him breathe a little easier. Hank once said he liked the simplicity of it all, the line between good and evil drawn so clearly in the sand. Connor steeps the tea, throwing the bag in the garbage and spooning his usual amount of sugar into the mug and stirring. He travels slowly back to the living room, careful on the slick surface under his feet.

“Concentrating pretty hard there,” Hank snorts, his head leaning against the back of the couch as he watches Connor enter the room. 

Connor glances at him, his mouth a thin line. “I don’t want to spill it.”

“I should get you some old man socks with grippers at the bottom,” Hank jokes, tugging on the leg of Connor’s sweatpants. “So you don’t fall down.”

Connor huffs a breath through is nose and sets his cup on the coffee table before throwing himself down, catching Hank off guard and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Is this where I make a bad joke about you always being there to catch me?” He asks, threading his fingers into Hank’s beard and jostling his jaw a little. Hank cracks a lopsided grin and pushes Connor onto his back, laughing as Connor yelps. They push and pull at each other, both fighting to keep from smiling too much. Hank gets Connor’s sweater halfway up his belly and Connor kicks at him lightly, ruffling Hank’s hair. They’re both laughing and half panting, finally growing still with Hank’s hands on either side of Connor’s head. 

There’s a moment of quiet, of breathing and the sound of spurs jingling on the TV, and then Connor’s eyelids drop low. Hank’s dipping his head, Connor’s hands moving up to cup his cheeks, and their lips meet in a hot, lazy rhythm. Connor sighs, the softest sound dropping into Hank’s mouth as he licks into Connor’s. Connor’s fingers play with the folds of Hank’s hood, the strands of hair at the back of his neck, and Hank bites Connor’s lower lip and tugs. Connor’s whole body arches then, his grip tightening in Hank’s hair.

They break apart slowly, both breathing heavy. Connor’s flushed, he can tell by the heat in his face, and color is climbing up Hank’s neck. Hank’s knuckles brush the skin of his cheek and Connor smiles softly, watching Hank’s face and leaning into his touch.

“The movie,” Connor murmurs.

“Seen it before,” Hank says, leaning closer.

“My tea.”

“I got a microwave.”

Their lips meet again and Connor’s entire body melts, his mouth opening easily again beneath Hank’s. He loops his arms around Hank’s neck, tilting his head as Hank groans softly and licks into him, careful slow strokes of his tongue that leave Connor breathless. Hank brushes the hair off Connor’s head, kissing the corner of his mouth before moving down over his jaw. Connor laughs softly, tilting his head back to allow Hank easier access. 

“What’s funny?” Hank asks, voice gruff. Connor can feel Hank’s mouth curved into a smile against his skin, and he rubs at Hank’s sides.

“Your beard tickles.” Connor turns his head to catch Hank’s mouth again, kissing him slow and hard, pulling away with a wet sound. “I like it.”

“Jesus,” Hank murmurs, pressing his forehead to Connor’s. His breath is hot against Connor’s face. Connor loops his arms around Hank’s neck again, kissing him lazily, his hands slowly pulling back the strands of Hank’s hair until it’s completely off his face. 

“Do you have a hair tie?” Connor can feel himself getting wet, the heat building between his legs, the throb of need in his dick, and he sighs softly. Hank shifts his arms, slipping his fingers under his sleeve to tug out a black elastic. Connor takes it from him, reaching out to loop it around the tuft of silver in his other hand. With his hair out of the way, Connor lets himself touch Hank’s face, cup his cheeks, smiling softly when their eyes meet. “You’re so handsome.”

Hank snorts and rolls his eyes, leaning down to kiss Connor again. “You’re gonna kill the mood.”

Connor presses his hand over Hank’s mouth, his own squishing down into a pout. “You are, Hank.” Hank licks Connor’s palm and Connor, instead of pulling away, pinches Hank’s nose. Hank pulls back, swatting Connor’s hand, but he’s smiling.

“And you’re a fuckin’ brat sometimes, you know that?” Hank slips his hands under the hem of Connor’s sweater, dragging his fingertips over the fabric of his binder. Connor sighs again, eyes half open, and Hank kisses him open-mouthed and messy, his breath catching as Connor tilts his head and bites at his bottom lip. Connor pulls back, slowly, letting the flesh drag between his teeth. Hank’s palms press against his chest and Connor arches, his hands curling into loose fists above his head.

“You can touch,” he breathes, blinking slowly and meeting Hank’s eyes. “I want you to touch them.”

Hank grunts, hooking his thumbs under the elastic and hiking it up. Connor bites his lip when the fabric drags over his nipples, the cool air making them stiff. Hank kisses his cheek, gently cupping one of his breasts and rubbing his thumb over the curve of it. Connor lets his eyes drop closed, his breath hitching as Hank pinches his nipple gently and tugs.

“Can I…” Hank hesitates, his face nuzzled near Connor’s temple. “Can I use my mouth?”

Connor turns his head to catch Hank’s mouth, licking hotly over his lips. “Please.”

Hank dips his head slowly, taking in Connor’s bare chest like he’s been granted permission to touch some sort of holy artifact. Connors nipples are ringed with soft dark hairs, little moles and freckles dotting the flesh here, too. He cups both Connor’s breasts and squeezes gently, ducking down to close his mouth over one of his nipples. Connor’s eyes fall shut and he slams his head back into the cushions as Hank sucks wetly, lathing his tongue over the soft skin. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched him here, sucked him here, and the slick heat of Hank’s mouth makes his insides clench around nothing. Hank pulls off with a pop and Connor whimpers, arching up into the loss. 

“Doing okay?” Hank murmurs, his thumb rubbing over the damp skin. 

Connor nods, forcing his eyes open. “More of that.”

Hank lowers his head, puckering his lips and blowing air over the wet surface. “Forgot a word, Con.”

“Please,” he manages, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Hank’s eyes won’t leave his face. “Please… more.”

Hank opens his mouth and drags the flat of his tongue over Connor’s nipple before taking it into his mouth again, sucking hard. Connor grabs at Hank’s ponytail, gripping hard with a trembling hand. Hank’s still fondling Connor’s other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers and dragging his fingernails over the curve of it. Connor slips his other hand beneath the waistband of his pants, dragging the side of his thumb over his dick through his underwear. The fabric near his entrance is soaking and slippery and he tilts his head back, groaning softly as Hank pulls off his chest and presses his open mouth to his other breast. 

Connor doesn’t let himself touch too much, just rubs lightly at the hard nub of his dick, his body begging for more. Hank bites gently at his chest and Connor pulls at Hank’s hair, toes curling at the sensation. Hank pulls off, his lips shiny and beard wet when Connor opens his eyes again.

“Too much?” Hank’s voice is soft, gravely, and it sends a trembly little jolt down Connor’s insides. He shakes his head, breathing hard through his nose and trying to remember how to form sentences. 

Hank notices the hand down his pants, then, and curls his fingers around Connor’s forearm, pulling it out. He squints at Connor’s fingers, brow furrowing at the dry surface of them. Connor feels a hysterical little laugh bubble out when Hank takes them into his mouth, his tongue working lazily between them. It’s all so much, but he still wants more. Connor yanks on Hank’s ponytail, pulling his fingers out with a messy pop.

“I want your mouth,” he says, licking his lips slowly. 

Hank struggles to hide his smile. “Where, baby. Where do you want it?” He presses a thumb to Connor’s lips and Connor parts them, taking the digit into his mouth. “You want it here?”

Connor nods, and Hank hooks his thumb into the hinge of Connor’s lips as he leans down and kisses him wetly, the finger pressing against their tongues, Connor’s breath puffing out hot and desperate from the gap it makes. Hank pulls back and drags their spit down over his chin with the pad of it. Connor swallows hard and breathes harder, watching Hank’s face with quiet anticipation.

“What about…” Hank presses the pad of his thumb under Connor’s jaw, to the length of his throat. “Here?”

Connor tilts his head back, making a little noise of agreement that buzzes beneath Hank’s finger. He dips his head down and peppers the skin with little kisses, licking over the line of Connor’s jaw, his tongue catching on little whiskers and moles. Connor’s fingers card through his ponytail, tugging gently when Hank closes his teeth around his flesh. He sucks hard, biting down and working a bruise into the skin until Connor is writhing beneath him. He licks over the irritated red mark softly and sits back, letting Connor catch his breath.

“Anywhere else?” Hank finally asks when Connor’s eyes slide open, his breathing a little less harried. Connor nods, releasing his grip on Hank’s hair to slide both his hands up his stomach to cup his breasts, pressing them together gently.

“Here,” he says softly, looking up at Hank through his eyelashes. Hank’s blood burns and he ducks his head to drag his tongue over the soft skin, dipping it into the crease between Connor’s tits. He tastes like sweat and soap and Hank puts his hands against the back of Connor’s, pressing his breasts closer together to lick sloppily back and forth between his nipples. Connor’s hips lift off the couch and he chokes out a weak little sound, his fingertips digging into his flesh as he grips himself desperately. Hank lets himself suck the soft mound into his mouth one more time, treasuring each swipe of his tongue over the slippery surface. Connor bucks beneath him again, grunting when Hank pulls back. He slides a hand over and draws a soft little circle around Connor’s areola with his index finger, watching Connor’s face. He’s flushed to the tips of his ears, the back of his hair sticking up where he’s pressed his head into the cushions, and his bottom lip is trembling slightly. Hank smooths it with his other hand, cupping Connor’s cheek gently.

“Where else, sweetheart?” Hank murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to Connor’s forehead. There’s already a thin sheen of sweat there and Hank pauses to push Connor’s hair back.

“You know,” Connor retorts, curling his fingers loosely into the fabric of Hank’s sweatshirt. Hank laughs softly, sitting back again.

“Nope,” he says, trailing his fingers over the curve of Connor’s sides. “I’m a real idiot, Con. You gotta use your words.”

Connor’s expression sours and Hank laughs outright, his hands stilling near Connor’s hips. He leans down to kiss him, but Connor turns his head and Hank’s lips land squarely on Connor’s cheek. He nuzzles his way to Connor’s jaw, speaking quietly against his skin. “Here?”

Connor shakes his head. Hank noses lower, down between his breasts. “Here?”

“No,” Connor breathes.

Hank slides one leg off the couch, then the other, kneeling as he presses his mouth just below Connor’s navel. “Must be here, right?”

Connor shivers as Hank licks wetly at the dark hair that sprouts over his waistband. “Lower.” His voice comes out dark, rough, and lower than he anticipated. Hank makes a noise in his chest, dragging the tip of his nose down Connor’s skin and over the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Here?” Hank growls, his breath hot even through the fabric between Connor’s legs.

“Please,” Connor manages, his hands returning to Hank’s hair, digging into his scalp under the strands pulled taught by the elastic. “I need it, Hank.”

Hank presses his mouth to Connor through his pants, open mouthed, exhaling warmly against him. Connor is wet all the way through his sweatpants, and Hank’s dick twitches in his boxers. He’s not sure at what point he started getting hard, but he’s definitely past that point now. He grips himself through his pants and licks Connor through the fabric, not giving a fuck about lint when Connor’s toes curl against the couch and he presses to Hank’s mouth.

“Stop teasing me.” Connor’s voice is desperate, almost a whine, and Hank presses a thumb between his legs, rubbing hard over his dick and making Connor keen. “Hank, fuck..!”

The curse shoots through Hank’s body like a shock. Connor doesn’t swear often, only when he’s furious or too fucked up to care, and the fact that he’s already desperate enough to forgo his filter makes Hank yank down Connor’s sweatpants. Connor’s boxer briefs are a light blue, soaked right through, and Hank hooks his fingertips into the waistband and tugs. Connor lifts his hips, watching Hank pull them down his legs and throw them somewhere into the living room behind him. 

For a split second Connor remembers the film, sees a man riding a horse on the TV, and then Hank’s stroking his thighs and his eyes flick back between his legs, where his boyfriend is gripping his hips and pulling his ass to the edge of the cushions. Hank looks up at him, kissing his inner thigh, and winks. Connor reaches down, closes his fist around Hank’s ponytail, and pushes his face between his legs.

Hank’s body jolts but Connor keeps him there, hooking his leg over Hank’s shoulder and pressing his heel into Hank’s back. Hank’s tongue presses hotly against his entrance and Connor exhales in a burst, letting his head fall back into the cushions. Hank licks into him messily, desperately, one hand hooked around Connor’s thigh and the other in the crook of his hip. Connor bucks into his mouth, groaning softly as Hank works up to his dick. Their eyes meet and Hank pulls Connor into his mouth, burying his nose in the brown hair and freckled skin above it. 

A moan rips through Connor’s chest and tumbles out of his mouth, his breath clipped and heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Hank watches him, watches his mouth fall open and his eyes roll back and slip shut, and slides a finger between the slick lips of Connor’s entrance. Connor’s thighs are trembling, now, and Hank manages to pull his head back enough to speak.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough. He slowly pumps into him, fighting the urge to shudder when Connor’s insides clench around him. Connor’s eyes barely open. “Do you wanna sit on my face?”

A tremor rolls through Connor’s body, his hips stuttering against Hank’s ministrations. “Yes,” he manages, his voice barely more than a whisper. “God, yes.”

Hank pulls his finger out, pushing Connor’s thigh back so he can stand up. Connor looks at him groggily, brows furrowed and eyelids heavy. Hank leans down and presses a kiss to his cheek, smearing Connor’s slick against his skin. “We’re doing this in the bedroom.”

Connor nods slowly and Hank hooks his arm under Connor’s legs, another under his back, and lifts him easily before heading down the hall. He’s hard enough that it’s difficult to walk, especially since he hasn’t adjusted himself at all, but Connor reaches up and loops his hands around Hank’s neck and gives him the sweetest little smile and Hank thinks he could walk all the way to Canada like this if he had to.

Luckily, it’s less than fifty feet and Hank is dropping Connor on the bed, laughing at the noise he makes when he bounces against the soft surface. Hank shucks off his sweatshirt and his pants and Connor follows suit, discarding his sweater and throwing his binder across the room. He gives Hank a look as he sits heavy on the bed, still in his boxers. Hank’s dick tents the fabric, a wet patch growing where he’s leaking against it. “What?”

“Take those off,” Connor murmurs, reaching for him.

Hank grabs his wrist, stops the searching hand. “I will.” He brings Connor’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “But not yet.” Connor sighs, his shoulders slumping, and Hank has to bite back a laugh. Instead, he throws himself down on the pillows and pats his chest, his palm slapping loudly against it. “Climb aboard.”

Connor snorts at him, shakily throwing a leg over Hank’s bulk and grabbing the headboard to slide himself up. “Aye aye, captain.”

Hank laughs this time, sliding his hands up Connor’s thighs and gripping his ass. Connor writhes a little in his grasp, biting his lip as Hank spreads him. The air is cold between his legs, on the wet dripping onto his inner thighs, and his grip tightens on the headboard as Hank scoots lower beneath him. Hank leans up, licking a hot stripe over the wet trails on his skin, and Connor whimpers softly. His hips wriggle despite himself and Hank holds him still, licking up the other thigh as Connor’s legs tremble.

The noise that Connor makes when Hank finally pulls him down onto his mouth is downright pathetic, and he’d be more upset about it if he weren’t lost in the wet mess of Hank’s tongue rubbing over him. Connor bucks hopelessly against him, the rough hair of Hank’s beard rubbing against his thighs a strange juxtaposition to the smooth, slippery heat where their bodies meet. Hank’s hands grip hard at his ass, his finger slipping towards Connor’s hole, and he wishes distantly that Hank were there, too, inside his ass. His toes are curling hard enough to cramp and he shifts, forehead dropping to rest against the wood of the headboard.

“Hank,” he moans, barely aware that he’s doing it. “God, fuck…” His hips jerk desperately, and Hank growls beneath him, his tongue dipping into Connor’s body. It’s almost too much but at the same time it’s not enough and Connor groans at the dissonance, his body trembling as Hank’s tongue presses molten against his cock. He feels like he’s about to come, but he doesn’t want to, but maybe he does? He pushes himself up on his knees, freeing himself from Hank’s impossibly hot mouth with a wet smack.

Hank’s hands immediately stroke at his ass, his thighs, and he licks his lips, panting softly. “You okay?”

Connor’s breath is rough and he nods, shakes his head, and nods again. “I don’t think I want to come yet.” He still has his forehead pressed to the wood when he manages to open his eyes, looking into Hank’s face with a dazed expression.

“Does it feel good?” Hank murmurs, reaching up to rub at the small of Connor’s back as his breathing slows. Connor laughs weakly, shifting on his knees. He lets a hand drop down to Hank’s face, making a soft sound in his throat when Hanks takes one of his fingers into his mouth.

“No,” Connor murmurs, his lips lifted in a lopsided smile. “I hate it. It’s the worst.”

Hank bites gently at his fingertip and slaps his ass. Connor jolts and arches, crying out. Hank’s mouth jerks up at one side and he slips a finger inside Connor, gripping his ass with his other hand and jostling his hips. “It is, huh.”

Connor’s chest heaves and he nods, breath puffing out in hot little bursts between lips he can’t seem to close. Hank spanks him again, watching as Connor’s entire body trembles from the impact, is insides clamping around his finger like a vice. He adds another, and Connor’s head drops past the headboard, the back of it pressed against the wood.

“Hank,” he whines, hips twitching as Hank hooks his fingers inside him. He lets go of Connor’s ass, instead reaching up to grab the curls that tumble over his forehead. He pulls Connor’s head down, watches as Connor’s hands scrabble at the edge of the headboard and his eyes shoot open. Connor’s entire body is bent like a bow over Hank and Hank holds his gaze, slowly pulling his fingers from Connor’s body.

He presses his fingers to his lips, spreading Connor’s slick over them, his mouth open. Connor watches, his chest heaving, as Hank reaches up and slides them into Connor’s mouth. He sucks greedily, slipping his tongue between Hank’s fingers and dipping his head to force them toward the back of his throat. Hank pulls them out with a pop and smears Connor’s spit across his chest, his fingertips catching on one of Connor’s nipples. Connor’s stomach twitches and Hank leans up to kiss it.

“What do you want, baby?” Hank murmurs against his skin, nuzzling a mole near Connor’s navel. “Are you tired?”

Connor shakes his head, biting his lower lip. He looks at Hank’s face as he lets himself fall back against the bed, his hands absently drifting over Connor’s flanks. “Can I suck you?”

Hank’s dick twitches in his boxers. It begs for freedom.

Hank nods, carefully sitting Connor against his stomach. The curve of Connor’s ass rests dangerously close to his cock. He pulls Connor down into a kiss, a slow thing that’s more tongue than anything else. “You can have whatever you want.” Connor hums against his mouth, bumping their noses together. His chest presses against Hank’s, the spit-slick surface sliding against the wiry patch of hair there. It tickles in the best way.

Connor pulls away slowly, shuffling down Hank’s body eagerly. The display makes Hank laugh quietly, his smile growing affectionate as Connor leans down to kiss at his tattoo, the curve of his belly. Connor pauses there, nosing at the gray hair, pressing his mouth against the stretch marks and scars. Hank pushes Connor’s hair out of his face and Connor looks up to meet his eyes, trading his own little smile for Hank’s.

“You got no business being so cute,” Hank grumbles, sliding his hand from Connor’s hair to the curve of his jaw, “right before you go down on an old man.”

Connor rolls his eyes, ducking his head and biting at Hank’s stomach. “Keep talking like that and I won’t.”

Hank snorts, shaking his head and pinching Connor’s earlobe, jostling his head. “I know how much you love sucking dick.”

Connor struggles not to laugh, instead turning his head to bite softly at Hank’s forearm. “So rude, Inspector,” he mumbles against the skin, his eyes on Hank’s face. “But also true.”

Hank laughs outright, his body shaking with it. Connor grins, ducking his head to hide it. Hank ruffles his hair, cupping his cheeks with both hands. “God damn it, I love you.”

Connor’s cheeks flush anew with the words and he smiles one of those smiles that makes his dimples pop, one side of his mouth pushed up past the other. “I love you, too,” he mumbles, suddenly sheepish. “Now let me suck you.”

Hank pats his cheek twice before letting his hands flop against the pillows near the headboard. Connor climbs the rest of the way down Hank’s body, carefully hooking his fingers in the waistband of Hank’s boxers and tugging. Hank grunts and lifts his hips, watching Connor lick his lips as Hank’s cock springs free. He grips the base loosely, stroking up the thick length slowly, coaxing a bead of precum from the tip. Hank groans at the touch, melting into the bed as his eyes drop closed. He hears Connor hum softly as he lets his hand drift down again, squeezing hard at the base as he presses the flat of his tongue against the slit, spreading the liquid over it.

Connor can feel Hank’s pulse, how it quickens as Connor lathes his tongue against the head of his cock, making the red skin slick and shiny. He drags it up the side, closing his mouth over the tip and sucking lazily. The weight of Hank is hot in his mouth, against his tongue, and his hips buck slightly as he lets more of Hank’s cock slide into him. His free hand cups Hank’s balls, his thumb rubbing absently over the surface of them. Hank’s voice rumbles out of him as Connor takes him even deeper, struggling around the girth of him.

“Fuck, Con…” Hank’s looking down at him, one of his hands pulling at his own nipple as Connor bobs his head. “You look so good like this.”

Connor lets his eyes flutter closed and takes Hank as deep as he can, his hand working over what his lips can’t. The head of Hank’s dick bumps the back of his throat and he chokes slightly but stays put, his own cock pulsing at the sensation. He lets his tongue move against the underside, feels spit starting to drool down his chin. Hank’s hips jerk and Connor pulls back, coughing slightly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Hank reaches down to rub Connor’s cheek with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to, you just… felt so fuckin’ good.”

Connor shakes his head, kissing the heel of Hank’s hand. “I like it.” He lets his mouth drop open, his tongue dipping down over his bottom lip, and he smacks Hank’s cock wetly against it. Hank grips his hair, watching as Connor’s eyes go heavy lidded. He rubs Hank’s dick against his cheek, against his wet pursed lips, smearing his spit and Hank’s precum over his skin. Hank’s dick twitches in Connor’s grasp.

“Jesus Christ.”

Connor winks at him and swallows him down again, bobbing his head hungrily, wet noises escaping as he works his tongue against Hank’s length. Hank tugs at his curls and his cock hits the back of Connor’s throat again, Connor’s hips writhing and his eyes rolling back as he chokes on it. Hank’s hips stutter at the clenching heat, the sound Connor makes, before Hank releases him and he pulls back up, spit dripping from his mouth and tears spilling down his cheeks.

Connor licks at his lips, pulling the bottom one into his mouth and releasing it with a pop. Hank thinks he might die.

“If you do that again, I’m gonna come,” Hank warns, his chest heaving with his breath. Connor laughs softly and instead licks up Hank’s cock from base to tip, sucking it into his mouth shallowly and rubbing his tongue in little circles around the glans. He grips Hank with both hands, pumping the length slick with his own spit. Hank bucks up into it, pressing one hand flat against the headboard, the other carding through Connor’s hair. Hank groans, clenching his jaw and struggling against the urge to fuck Connor’s throat and spill into his mouth. He could do it, and Connor wouldn’t complain, but there’s no rush to end this.

He tugs on Connor’s hair and he slips his mouth off Hank’s dick with a wet pop, his hands stilling around it. Connor’s eyes are half closed, his expression dazed as Hank cups his chin and slips a thumb into Connor’s mouth. He smears the spit around Connor’s tongue, his bottom lip, and Connor almost purrs.

“I wanna fuck you proper,” Hank murmurs, and Connor closes his mouth around Hank’s thumb loosely. “If that’s okay with you.”

Connor nods, tilting his head so Hank’s thumb trails down his chin, trailing spit. “I want to ride you.” He nuzzles into Hank’s palm, kissing softly at the skin there. Hank nearly chokes.

“Do I get a request, then?” He’s kidding, but Connor’s eyes light up in a way he usually sees during a lock in when he thinks they’ve got something really good on camera. “Get my belt.”

Connor’s brow furrows a tiny bit. This could mean one of many, many things. He slides off the bed, shivering a little at the loss of Hank’s warmth, and pulls the belt from the loops of Hank’s jeans. It’s a simple black thing, worn with age, with a silver rectangular buckle. He crawls back up on the bed and straddles hank, holding it out.

Hank rests his hands on Connor’s hips and clears his throat, rubbing gently with his thumbs. “Of course, you don’t gotta do this if you don’t like it,” Hank mumbles, looking at the three moles on Connor’s right cheek. “But I want you to. Uh.” He glances at Connor’s eyes, at the little wrinkle in his brow. “I want you to choke me with it.”

Connor’s entire body goes rigid, his hands trembling as he looks down at the strip of leather. He pictures it around Hank’s neck, the muscles there bulging against it as he rides Hank, pulling hard. “Oh.”

“If you don’t—” Hank starts, but Connor’s leaning down, pressing desperate, hot little kisses to his mouth.

“I want to,” he murmurs, rubbing his cheek against Hank’s, savoring the scratch of his beard. “I really, really want to.”

Hank grunts, his fingers gripping Connor’s hips. “If I don’t like it, I’ll tap twice.”

Connor nods against his skin, then sits up and threads one end of the belt under Hank’s neck. Hank lifts his head, setting his jaw as he watches Connor slip the tip of it through the buckle. He slowly pulls it taught, the cold metal settling against Hank’s throat. “Is that alright?”

Hank nods, stroking Connor’s thighs again. “It’s good.”

Connor gives an experimental tug and Hank’s eyes flutter shut, his back arching off the bed slightly. Connor hums, releasing the pressure. “Good.” He settles over Hank, reaching back for his cock. Hank grabs his wrist.

“Condom.”

Connor shakes his head. “I want you to come inside me.”

“You sure?” Hank’s voice is low, impossibly low, and Connor gives him an impish little smile that makes his blood boil. He tugs at the belt, pulling it tight enough to make it feel like something but not enough to choke.

“Yes.”

He grips the base of Hank’s dick, still slippery with his spit, and rubs it against the dripping slit of his entrance, his eyelids fluttering at the sensation. He rocks against it, rubbing the tip against his cock, before finally starting to sit back. Hank groans, gritting his teeth at the sensation. Connor whimpers, taking it slow, letting Hank split him open slowly, moving down a little at a time and then pulling him almost out. Hank grips Connor’s ass, spreading him but not forcing him down, breathing hard through his nose. Slowly, painfully slowly, Connor’s hips finally meet his, and Connor groans deep enough that it shakes his insides.

“You’re so big,” he breathes, looping the end of the belt around his hand. He sits still, lets himself adjust, and tugs on the leather strap. “You’re so fucking good, Hank.”

Hank’s hips twitch and Connor pulls hard, biting his lip and watching Hank’s face as he tries to gasp. Connor pulls his hips up slowly, head falling back as he lets the leather fall loose again, a desperate little sound falling from his lips. He pulls Hank out almost completely, then seats himself hard, a tremor tearing through him as he tightens his grip and pulls.

Hank’s fingers dig into his ass, his hips, his face flushed as he struggles to breath. He’s so impossibly hard inside Connor, and he clenches hard around Hank’s cock as he starts to grind against him, bouncing slowly. His legs are tired but he doesn’t care, not when Hank’s inside him and he’s so wet and Hank is going to fill him up, spill out of him. The thought makes him whimper and he leans forward, letting Hank breathe as he bucks hard against him, the drag of him against Connor’s insides impossibly thick and hot.

“Hank,” Connor manages, curling his free hand into Hank’s chest hair. Hank pants hungrily beneath him, one of his hands slipping from his ass to press a thumb shakily against Connor’s cock. He rubs slowly and Connor chokes out a pained noise, one Hank recognizes. Connor’s hips twitch hungrily against him, his insides clench hard around him.

“You’re so good, baby,” Hank rasps, bringing his thumb to his mouth to wet it before pressing it against Connor’s dick again. Connor nearly sobs, biting his bottom lip and bearing down. Hank’s hips twitch up again and Connor’s eyes roll back, his head lolling against his chest. Hank fucks up into him, punching little sounds out of Connor’s throat, and Connor tugs weakly at the belt.

Hank’s breath catches and Connor pulls harder. Hank’s ears ring slightly, his head growing light as his thrusts slow. Connor watches him through barely open, eyes, fucking down against him, clenching hard each time he pulls up. Hank watches Connor’s face, his tits, the way they bounce as he rides Hank’s cock. Hank reaches up and grips one and the belt loosens, Connor’s eyes dropping fully closed as Hank tugs his nipple and snaps his hips up with a grunt. Connor groans low, hips twitching erratically.

“I’m close,” he manages, and Hank grabs his hips and lifts him off him in one fluid motion.

Connor whines and writhes, his feet kicking slightly against the sheets. “Hank, what—”

“Not yet, Con.” Hank breathes, struggling to keep his hold on him. “Hold on for me a little longer, okay?”

Connor almost cries, his head dipping low as he sets his jaw, his toes curling. His hand grips the belt, but he doesn’t pull. “Okay,” he says, his voice soft. He knows it’ll be so good when he does come, when Hank lets him. It’ll be so disgustingly good.

“Breathe,” Hank murmurs, and Connor stays up on his knees even when Hank’s grip releases. “In, out.”

Connor breathes. In for three counts, out for three. In for three, out for three.

“Good boy,” Hank whispers, his hands a heavy weight against Connor’s thighs where he strokes them. The muscles twitch beneath his grasp.

In for three counts. Out for three.

He’s slowly coming down from it, from the edge, from being so close, and his dick is pulsing in the sweet, painful way it does when they do this. Connor breathes in, breathes out. Hank’s thumb brushes just below his entrance. He next breath he pulls in is shaky. Hank’s thumb presses against it. His breath comes out shaky, too.

“I’m good,” he mumbles, and Hank slips his thumb inside. Connor shudders and clenches around him, but doesn’t come. 

Hank slips out again and lines up his cock. “You’re so, so good,” the hand on Connor’s hip urges him down. “Come on, then.”

Connor sits, sheaths Hank bit by bit, still breathing slowly, his hands trembling as he tugs on the belt. Hank’s breath goes quiet and Connor sits hard, rocking against him with desperate little bucks of his hips, using his grip on the leather as leverage. Hank’s hand is tight on his hip, the nails biting into his skin a grounding sort of sting. Connor lets up and Hank gasps, drinking in the air like he’s been drowning. He thrusts up into Connor and Connor meets him, their skin slapping where they intersect. Each thrust punches little sounds out of Connor’s mouth and they grow louder as Hank’s movements grow rougher, more desperate, and Connor leans over him, gripping the sheets with one hand and tugging again with the other.

Hank fucks up into him desperately, hungrily, his head light and his heart pounding in his ears. Connor’s eyes drop shut and his head tips to the side, his mouth open, and Hank taps his thigh hard twice. Connor blinks, sitting up suddenly and dropping the belt, slapping his hand on the edge of the headboard instead. Hank gulps a breath, his pace not faltering as he grips Connor’s ass again.

Connor’s starting to drool, saliva glinting on his bottom lip and tears pooling in his eyes as he shudders, struggling to keep the heat pooling in his stomach from spilling over. It’s like walking while balancing an egg on a spoon in his mouth. It’s like trying to keep a cup of water from spilling on a country road. Hank shifts his hips and drives into him in just the right way and he cries out, biting his lip hard and hissing his breath through his teeth.

“You really want me to come in you?” Hank grunts, his hips still slapping hard against Connor’s. “You want me to fill you up?”

“God, yes,” Connor chokes out, a single tear dripping down his cheek and landing against the ink on Hank’s chest. “Please, please..!”

“You gonna come for me, too?” Hank’s voice is forced out of him, his thrusts growing harder. Connor nods, jolted by Hank’s movements, his voice coming out of him in desperate little groans. Hank fucks up into him relentlessly, gripping Connor’s ass and bucking his hips, his feet flat against the bed. The mattress shrieks, the springs inside it protesting the sudden aggressive movement. Connor clenches down on him, the hot drag of him so good and too much and yet, at the same time, almost not enough. He breathes Hank’s name, his voice cracking as Hank pushes deep inside him and comes with a groan, fucking Connor through it. It’s impossibly hot and deep and Connor sobs out a moan, desperately pressing two fingers to his dick and rubbing hard, coming almost as soon as he touches himself. He can feel Hank’s cum sliding out of him, unable to contain it all, and he shudders hard, another orgasm ripping through him.

Hank’s hips stutter to a stop and Connor flops onto his chest, struggling to breathe, Hank’s hands immediately carding through his hair and petting his back. Connor feels like he’s floating and yet a thousand pounds at the same time. His cheeks are wet, and his tears are catching in Hank’s chest hair, and he nuzzles into it, realizing slowly that the sound in his ears is his own low groaning.

He’s tilted on his side and Hank pulls out, gently moving Connor onto his back. Connor drags his eyes open, breathing hard, and he’s barely aware of Hank shifting between his legs.

“You okay?” Hank’s lips are pressed to his cheek, to his forehead, and Connor can feel his hands on his sides. Connor nods.

“I’m really. I’m good. I’m really great.” His voice breaks a little but he smiles.

Hank laughs above him and Connor can make out his face, the strands of hair that have escaped his ponytail. He strokes Connor’s cheek, looking exhausted but pleased with himself. “You’re great.”

“You’re great,” Connor grumbles, closing his eyes. He reaches up to hold one of his own breasts like it’ll ground him. It sort of works. “You’re really good, Hank.” Connor hears the bed creaking, feels Hank’s weight leave it. Without his presence, Connor feels more than ever like he’s going to float away, and his other hand grips loosely at the sheets. He can hear something clattering distantly, what he thinks is running water. There are footsteps in the hallway, and then Hank is leaning over him again, shifting him up against the pillows. Cold glass is pressed to his cheek. He forces his eyes open again.

“Drink this,” Hank murmurs, voice impossibly soft. He sits on the edge of the bed, the belt gone from his neck. Connor curls his hand around the glass and sips, flinching as an ice cube bumps his nose. Hank laughs softy, resting his hand on Connor’s stomach and drawing small circles with his thumb. “You’re gonna make it, Arkay. I just know it.”

“No,” Connor murmurs, some of the water spilling onto his chest. Hank wipes it away. “I’m dead. I’m a ghost, and I’m haunting you.”

“You are the horniest goddamn ghost I’ve ever seen or heard of,” Hank snorts, pressing a kiss to the scar at Connor’s temple. “The neediest, horniest ghost ever documented.”

Connor scoffs and weakly hits Hank’s chest. “I let you come inside me and this is the thanks I get.” He hums softly into his glass as Hank catches his hand and kisses his fingertips, his knuckles, and presses Connor’s palm back against the cup.

“Speaking of,” Hank murmurs, kissing Connor’s shoulder, “can I touch you? I wanna…” His voice gets small in a way Connor rarely hears. “I wanna see it.”

Connor nods, catching Hank’s chin with his hand and pressing a kiss to his mouth. “Of course.”

Hank kisses him back, then one more time for good measure, before shuffling down the bed to sit between Connor’s knees. Connor sips from his glass, watching Hank gently part his legs. Hank glances up at Connor’s face, smiling softly as he slides his hands down Connor’s thighs, spreading him open slowly. Connor’s hips jerk a little and he makes a soft sound in his throat, overly sensitive. 

“You alright up there?” Hank asks, and Connor nods. “Can I touch a little more?”

“Mhm.” Connor tilts his head, letting it rest on his shoulder. “It’s alright.”

Hank slowly sinks his thumb inside and Connor’s breath hitches. Hank slowly drags it out of him, pressing down with the pad of it, and whistles lowly at the mess. “Damn.”

Connor covers his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh, because the whole thing is extremely hot, but he’s also just been fucked into the sixth dimension and is probably astral projecting. Hank’s looking at him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe, like this moment is something he’s never going to forget, and Connor is trying not to dump water on himself.

Hank looks up, catches him smiling. “What?”

“I’m just. Happy.” Connor breathes. He lowers his hand, lets Hank see the curve of his lips. “You. I like you.”

“You like me, huh?” Hank growls, crowding over Connor and caging him in, Hank’s hands on the headboard. He nuzzles Connor’s cheek and Connor laughs, struggling to keep his water from spilling on both of them.

“Hank!”

He presses kisses to his cheek, his forehead, his mouth, and Connor laughs through all of them, a content buzzing in his chest.

Hank sits back, gently rubbing the curve of Connor’s cheek with his knuckles. “I like you, too.” His touch lingers, and Connor smiles, pressing the rim of the glass to his lips.

Hank lets his hand drop, taking Connor’s cup. “But now you gotta pee, so you don’t get a UTI.”

Connor slams his head back into the pillows and groans. “Hank…”

“You know I’m right.”

“I can’t walk, Hank.”

“I’ll carry you.”

____________

Hank does carry him to the bathroom, and back to bed, and helps Connor into an old shirt from a concert he went to in 2020. He covers Connor in a thick fleece blanket, tucking him in like a burrito, before he vanishes for a few minutes to take care of the movie, still playing abandoned in the living room, and makes sure Sumo is watered and fed.

“Bring me my phone,” Connor yells, and Hank’s returns, phone in hand. Connor takes it from him gratefully after wiggling his arms free from his soft prison. “I have to tell Niles I’m not coming home.”

Hank sits heavy on his side of the bed and groans, flopping onto his side to lay an arm across Connor. “Doesn’t he just assume at this point?”

“No.” Connor taps out his message and sends it. Niles immediately begins typing a reply. “He worries if I don’t say anything.”

“The Crypt Keeper worries?”

Connor gives him a look. “Yes. More than you would expect.”

Hank shrugs and shifts closer. Connor puts his phone on the bedside table and settles in. The table lamp casts a low, yellow glow. Hanks hair looks gold in it, and Connor reaches out to push aside some of the strands as Hank rubs his side through the blanket.

“Thank you,” Connor murmurs, his eyes nearly dropping closed.

Hank grunts. “What did I do?”

Connor shrugs and shuffles closer. Hank tucks Connor’s head under his chin. “Well. You’re welcome.”

Connor snorts. Hank kisses the top of his head. Connor listens to him breathe, takes in the scent of him, the heat of him. The light on the table buzzes softly, low enough that Hank probably can’t hear it. Sumo slurps down water in the distance, his tags clanking against the bowl, and Connor feels at peace. Calm seeps into his bones like cement and he sighs, resting hard against Hank’s chest.

He suddenly feels like crying. Not in a heavy, sad kind of way, but in relief. That he’s here, and he’s with Hank, and that they can laugh and fuck and sleep in Hank’s bed like there’s nothing wrong with the world. It’s safe.

He can’t remember the last time he felt safe like this.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what I’m doing or who I am. I’m so dead. It’s four am??? WHAT DIMENSION IS THIS


End file.
